Love, Grief & More Sex Than Pinot

Extract From Chapter 2

Early 1990s–Early 2000s: Early Life

Being a great cook, hosting dinner parties never fazed Mum; the promise of inviting people who loved to laugh, fuelling her. With wine flowing and drinking games such as Fuzzy Duck well underway, it was only a matter of time before Mum began telling one of her rude jokes. Both baffling and brilliant, with her uncanny knack for accents, she’d switch words around, sounding more Glaswegian than a Glaswegian granny saying in an American accent ‘Space Ghettos’ meaning ‘Spice Girls’, or in some jokes, morph into an irate Irish woman shouting, ‘Fuck off!’ as ‘Fok-kaf!’ But what made her jokes truly unforgettable was her head-back, full-volume, joy-to-the-sky laugh, so infectious that it usually set off a chain reaction, leaving her guests doubled over in hysterics, and at least one letting loose an undignified trumpet blast, which only made everyone laugh harder. In those moments, it was like the house came alive with joy, and Mum, right at the centre of it all, was by far the brightest star.

Growing up with Mum was pure fun. She adored being silly, especially when my sisters and I were in the car, stopped at traffic lights. With music blaring, she’d wind down the window and sing as loudly as she could, her voice purposefully soaring into a delightfully off-key soprano, impossible to ignore. As passersby looked on, puzzled and amused, our cries of ‘Mum, stop!’ egged her on further. Eventually, our mortification would melt away into helpless laughter, and we’d slide down into the footwells, wishing they’d swallow us up. 

Being the youngest, I was usually towed to Sainsbury’s to assist with the mammoth bi-weekly grocery shop. Mum’s ‘We’ll only be half an hour, darling,’ was always at least two-and-a-half hours. It was hungry work. 

Whizzing through the aisles on the back of my trolley like a scooter, zipping past the cheese counter, I’d snatch as many free samples as my little fingers could grab, swiftly making a beeline for the pick ‘n’ mix section, to scour the floor for ‘freebies’. If my findings were thin, I’d accidentally-on-purpose drop a few of my favourites: milk bottles, fudge, anything remotely chocolatey, onto the floor… 

By the time we reached the checkout, Mum had filled both our trollies, and sometimes half of a third. Loading the conveyor belt, we’d slip into our secret code, back slang, a playful language Mum had taught us, giving us the freedom to openly comment on the quirks of fellow shoppers. Of course, as a child, I’d delight in pointing out the very obvious, boldly saying things like, ‘Ummay, ooklay atay atthay aldbay ansmay ugehay osenay [Mum, look at that bald man’s huge nose],’ or, ‘Ooklay atay ethay eckchay outay adieslay airyhay inchay [Look at the checkout lady’s hairy chin].’

In those moments, her eyes would flash a naughty twinkle, fully acknowledging me, though never letting the poor souls know we were talking about them.

It wasn’t all silliness and laughter with Mum, though. She was a supremely sensitive soul who taught us it’s the little things in life that matter most. At weekends, on dog walks or bike rides, she’d stop us in our tracks, pointing out the beauty around us. ‘Look at that beautiful butterfly, darlings, she’s like an exquisite flower with wings, see how she shines and dances!’  

‘But she’s just flown away, Mummy, I want her back!’ 

‘Oh, but butterflies are like love, darling — they dance where they please and please where they go.’

Sitting on the Essex Marshes, watching her with her paintbrush in one hand and her paint palette in the other, she’d often say things like, ‘Sunrises and sunsets remind us that each day begins and ends with beauty; what happens in between is up to you, my darlings.’ Her words, like her art, were vibrant, uplifting, and full of heart. 

Mum had a rare, beautiful gift for making each of us feel like we were the most important person in the world. She possessed a quiet magic, an instinctive radar that could sense when something was off long before we even realised it ourselves. And even when we weren’t ready to put our worries into words, she had this gentle, almost enchanting way of drawing them out, turning our heaviness into lightness with just a few caring questions or a reassuring hug. 

Wearing her heart openly on her sleeve, she made it easy for us to do the same. With her, there were no pretences, no need to hide or filter our feelings. I always knew where I stood with Mum; I could be completely honest, share my thoughts, fears, dreams, and silliness, and know I’d always be met with love, patience, and understanding. There was a comforting constancy in her openness, a warmth that made every conversation with her feel like a safe haven, a space where vulnerability was not just accepted but utterly cherished.